


get it together

by silentwalrus



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs To Go Home And Say 8000 Hail Marys, Cap At The Club, M/M, Not Enough Jokes, This Fic Has No Redeeming Qualities, Thot Activity, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 18:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17986637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentwalrus/pseuds/silentwalrus
Summary: “You wanna go out?”





	get it together

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Get it together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18339596) by [Tressa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tressa/pseuds/Tressa)



 

“You wanna go out?”

Steve, who’s just putting the laundry in the dryer for the night, looks over to find Bucky at the kitchen table folding money into Steve’s wallet, because his preferred way of carrying cash is making Steve do it. (“Nobody ever tries to rob you.” “Nobody ever tries to rob _you!”_ “I can watch our things better when you carry them.” _“What?”)_

“Out where?” Steve asks, collecting up the last of the stray socks and shoving them in. “Like a bar?”

“Like dancing.”

That does give Steve pause, because he’s aware of what dancing entails in 2018, and ten seconds ago he wouldn’t have been able to say with any confidence that Bucky would like it. On the other hand, Bucky doesn’t offer what he can’t follow through, and these days Steve is incapable of denying Bucky anything, even in play, even for show.

“Sure,” he says. He’s probably going to have to change out of these pants with the paint stain on the ass. “How do you want me?”

Bucky picks some clothes for him, so naturally the jeans are too tight and the shirt is held on by spit and presumably _somebody’s_ prayers. Steve goes to put on his jacket, but Bucky shakes his head so his arms stay bare - though _Buck_ puts on his _own_ leather jacket, which Steve would complain about only then Buck turns around and derails the usual bickering by being too handsome for words.

He seems to know it, too, meeting Steve’s eyes and smiling crookedly for once instead of hunching his shoulders or moving in immediately to get grabbed. “Ready, Rogers?” he says, slipping his hands into his back pockets and showing off his own unreasonably sized jeans.

Steve narrows his eyes, wills his flush back to the nether hells it came from and opens the front door, gesturing grandly down the steps. “After you.”

It’s the right answer. Bucky grins and actually spins in place before stepping out, walking grandly down the stairs.

Steve smiles helplessly as he locks up behind them. If Bucky’s in this good of a mood he doesn’t care if he’s about to be taken to squaredance to banjo music.

They walk, side by side but Bucky leading, their elbows bumping occasionally. It’s only a few blocks down that Steve starts to hear the distant rhythmic thumping of muffled music, and the sounds of laughter and conversations grow louder as what must be the dancehall line comes into view. It’s busy; knots of people stand around smoking and talking, lots of heels and glittery fabric and puffs of smoggy air from that vaping stuff.

“Here,” Bucky says as they walk, nudging him and holding out something small and orange in his palm.

“Earplugs?” Steve says, taking them.

“You’ll need ‘em,” Bucky says, tucking the sides of his hair back one side at a time to start putting in his own. Steve nods, the deep thump of the music even louder now, and puts the earplugs in.

He can still hear through them, their senses being what they are now, but it keeps the noise tolerable as they get closer and closer in line. The singers’ voices are unintelligible but unnecessary with that kind of bassline, and Steve feels his blood start to pumping, his heels wanting to bounce to the beat. He does like the contemporary style of music, this hard, fast stuff that feels like fighting, like the exhilaration of running as fast as you can go; this is the future’s big band swing.

At the door they get their IDs checked and submit to a perfunctory patdown, which Steve has to smile a little over; he has no idea what’s on the ID Buck showed them and he has no doubt whatever Bucky’s got on him won’t show up for a metal detector, let alone a two second frisk. They get a checkmark sharpied onto the back of one wrist and as they pass through Bucky reaches back and takes Steve’s hand, leading him inside.

It’s lung-shakingly loud inside the bar. Dancehall. It’s crowded, too, but in bunches and knots, and Bucky cuts through the crowd like a shark through guppies and leads them easily to the back, a space populated by stacks of barstools and a few wallflowers. A blast of cold air from above makes Steve glance up; they’re standing directly under an industrial AC vent, blowing frigid air into the room. Remembering how hot Bucky’s dancehalls back in Brooklyn used to get, Steve’s preemptively grateful.

Bucky puts a palm on his chest. Steve’s attention immediately snaps to. Bucky’s looking up at him, hair and face flashing red and green and occasionally sharp white in the strobing lights.

“Your job,” Bucky says, Steve mostly reading his lips, “is to keep everybody at least a foot away from me.” His finger inscribes a circle around them, lazy, his expression anything but.

“Okay,” Steve says, ready to agree to anything and only half processing what the hell Bucky’s saying. Then Buck turns around, backs up _right_ against Steve and starts - moving.

He does not start slow.

Steve’s very first instinct is to freeze up, because surely this is - illegal? Not allowed, at least? They just got here, Bucky can’t want them to get kicked out _now._ But Bucky doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate, just keeps - moving - and Steve’s stance automatically widens to brace himself. This is certainly - happening. He’s trying hard not to look like some bug-eyed hick with his hackles up just because a handsome man’s rear is very insistently making his acquaintance but Bucky is _really not making things easy._

Then Bucky reaches back, takes Steve’s hand in a businesslike hold and puts it on his hip. Steve’s grip immediately locks of its own accord. Bucky takes Steve’s other hand and puts it on his right pectoral. Steve can’t help but squeeze. He feels Bucky laugh under his palms, shaking out of time to the beat. Then he - resumes.

The music thunders around them, the speed of the beat changing from time to time but always staying upbeat, growling, getting people to move. The dance floor fills up further. Steve hangs onto Buck for dear life, trying not to grip too hard, trying to be what Buck wants which right now seems to be the dancehall equivalent of a good sturdy scratching post. He has no compunctions about moving Steve’s hands where he wants them, and that’s pretty much his chest or his hips and at one point the underside of his forearms while Buck does a series of unspeakable things with his head at approximately navel height.

Steve is happy to be of service. He is going to be a scratching post until Buck gets done with him or the dancehall closes out for the night. He’s really not sure he can call any of this _dancing_ but he can see Bucky’s enjoying himself, judging by the corners of a smile he can see when Buck angles his head or steals a glance back at him. Every nun they’ve ever met is spinning like a turbine in their graves. Steve’s temperature ticks up another few degrees.

It occurs to him to wonder where Buck’s learned this - moving like this is definitely _not_ the kind of dance that gets taught in a class alongside lindy hop and ballroom and waltz, and that doesn’t leave a whole lot of _other_ places to have learned it - but then Bucky does something indescribable with his pelvis and Steve’s higher brain function signs off for the night. He doesn’t care where Bucky learned it. The cold air blasting down from above is the only thing keeping the steam from boiling up out of his ears as his brains simmer down into tapioca sludge. His _ankles_ are sweating. It’s a very, very good, excellent, highly wonderful thing that his pants are so fucking tight.

At some point Bucky shrugs off his jacket, turning around to tie it around Steve’s waist. Steve can’t help but keep him there, facing him, hands clutching, and the corners of Bucky’s mouth curl up and he obliges. The long-sleeved shirt he’s got on is loose but the sweat is making it start to cling. Steve is learning he can be jealous of poly-cotton blend. He wants to leave a hickey right between Buck’s collarbones. He wants to say a hundred Hail Marys. He wants to back them up against this wall and make him pay up on all these promises, cash in on what Buck’s been giving him all night.

At some point, it registers that people are watching them.

Some small objective part of Steve understands that nobody in this crowd of drunks and kids is a threat, but the rest of him is currently somewhere around 32,000 BC and is beating its chest in a testosterone-sodden frenzy while Bucky stretches and squirms against his grip. _Keep them away from me,_ he’d said, and at some point Steve will laugh at how he’s been played like a ten cent fiddle but right now what’s left of his self control is taken up by not meathead flexing at the nearest guy or humping the closest bit of Buck like a rabid jackrabbit.

Bucky’s enjoying himself. Bucky’s having a nice time. He’s going to get exactly what he wants.

Time starts to fold and blur like warm taffy. The lights strobe. Bucky slithers up and down Steve’s body like a greased rattlesnake while Steve makes eye contact with every unfortunate chump to look their way and psychically promises all pains unto death with every fiber of his being. Either he’s having some rapid developments in previously latent ESP or people are getting the point from his looks alone, because nobody tries to get close to them if they can help it.

One drunk kid stumbles past and half-trips, but Steve takes a step backwards and Bucky steps with him, as smooth as if they planned it, as if they were one person. He tips his head back onto Steve’s shoulder, his metal hand curling around Steve’s wrist, swaying them to the beat. He’s not hiding; all the lines of him are unknotted and open, trusting Steve to take more than half his weight.

Warmth blooms deep in Steve’s chest, instead of where it’s been concentrated for the past hour in a rather more lower section. It lights something fierce and tight inside to see Bucky happy to show off again, even if it’s not quite like before. He’s not looking at who’s looking but he’s aware of them all the same. He’s not shying from it. He’s happy to bask. He knows Steve is there to regulate the attention.

Steve kisses Buck’s temple, squeezing him everywhere he’s got a hand. It makes Bucky lean into him further. “Home?” he asks, practically against Steve’s cheek, and Steve damn near clotheslines some hapless partier in his about-face to march them out of the club.

They get outside with no casualties, though honestly they could have trampled a dozen people on their way out and Steve’s not sure he would’ve noticed. Bucky’s hand is hot in his, alive and squeezy and a little damp, using it to reel himself close as they spill out through the throng of people at the front of the club.

They walk back like that, the music and cigarette smoke and beer smells fading behind them as Bucky tucks himself into Steve’s side, elbows linked; they pause to pry out their earplugs and then stumble on, discarding them in the nearest trashcan. Steve’s dick is threatening to bust through several layers of denim but Bucky is as light as Steve’s ever seen him, looking bright-eyed up at the dark sky, practically humming, and Steve wants to see it a little longer before they kiss it off into familiar lust.

That doesn’t mean he can’t think about the rest, though. The second they get through the bedroom door he’s gonna have Buck clawing a hole in the mattress.

Then at a crosswalk Bucky leans in close, loose-bodied, happy, unwound with it, and kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Thank you,” he mumbles, easy and sweet.

Steve momentarily sets aside all thoughts of railing Bucky into next Sunday and drags him in for a hug, squeezing him tight enough to lift him up onto his toes. “Oof,” Bucky says, laughing, his hair swinging in Steve’s face, and Steve kisses his throat again and again, burying his face in deep.

“Anytime.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> title from ms new booty. i have no answers justifications or excuse


End file.
